


Strays

by et2brute



Category: Megalo Box (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Hook-Up, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Poverty, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et2brute/pseuds/et2brute
Summary: You weren't thinking of stopping by, not really.  Not any more than you'd sort of fantasized about over the last couple of weeks, since Junk Dog and Nanbu and the kid moved in on your neighborhood.  Your parents own the liquor store on the corner, so word got around fast. They've all been by, picking up groceries or the odd replacement part from the steelyard around back. Most people already knew Nanbu from the old days.But everyone knows Junk Dog, and if they didn’t before, they know him now.Junk Dog takes you to bed.





	1. I.

Junk Dog takes you to bed.

You weren't sure if he would.  You've seen him turn girls down before.  But you come by just before sundown, after Old Man Nanbu calls it a night and grumps at the kid to get some rest.  He knew your parents, but you'd bet your scrapheap motorbike he wouldn't know you.

You weren't thinking of stopping by, not really.  Not any more than you'd sort of fantasized about over the last couple of weeks, since Junk Dog and Nanbu and the kid moved in on your neighborhood.  Your parents own the liquor store on the corner, so word got around fast. They've all been by, picking up groceries or the odd replacement part from the steelyard around back. Most people already knew Nanbu from the old days.

But everyone knows Junk Dog, and if they didn’t before, they know him now.

You follow the river from your parents’ store to your parents’ house.   _He'_ s loitering outside the houseboat when you pull up, pumping water into a bucket, upending it over his head to rinse the hard-worked salt off his body.  He sees your headlight, and you ease off the gas, coast the last dozen yards on account of your brakes are a little loose.

He scrubs a towel over his damp head and looks you over for a minute.  “Last Wednesday,” he places, tipping up his chin.

You throw down the kickstand and unstrap a six-pack of piss yellow pale ale.  “You remember.”

He shrugs, one-shouldered.  “You gave Sachio a fair deal for the motor trade-in.  Not everyone takes him seriously, but the kid knows his stuff.”

“Wasn't bad for us either.  Had a client looking for spare parts, that model.”

The warm wind rustles the mess of Junk Dog's hair, the threadbare rag of your shirt.  He hadn't said much to you, that day in the store, other than thank you.

You pass him a can of beer, the thin aluminum sweating under your fingertips.

“You got a name, then?” He asks, popping the tab with a rich hiss.

“Just another stray,” you huff, and he knows why you're here, and he's turned down girls before.  Pretty city girls, come down to slum it with an accessible celebrity.

But Junk Dog smiles at you.  Loops the iron rope of his arm across your back, gets a feel for your stiff body language as he drinks your family's beer and asks you questions he can't possibly care about the answers to.

How old you are.  Twenty. If you’re going to take over the store.  Yeah. If you do any work on the side. Connects, now and then.  Drugs. No. Fencing. Some. Favorite fruit. Apples, if you can get ‘em.  

Time passes.  He wipes his mouth.  The weak yellow light spilling through the houseboat’s limp curtains finally pinches out, sun gone an hour now.

“You wanna go for a ride?”  He asks, eyes gleaming like dark honey.  His fingers skip a slow pattern over your bare arm, and you think about them riding up under your top, edging down your waistband.

“Yeah,” you manage, voice rougher than you meant it.  “I'd like that.”

He glances sideways at the boathouse.  “I’d take you up to the roof, but—”

“Not an issue,” you say quickly, surprised.  You know what this is, and what it isn’t. Whatever the boathouse may be tomorrow, it’s still his home today, and guys on the up-and-coming like Junk Dog don’t need to bring girls like you in off the street.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says.  Clears his throat, tightens his hand on your shoulder.  “We’re just—gonna make a lot of noise.”

You snort.  “High-minded of yourself.” 

He laughs in a short, soft way.  “Just my experience. Don’t wanna wake anyone up.”

“Give it your best, then,” you challenge.

His palm slides over yours, twists, locks your fingers together like gears slotting into place, and Junk Dog takes you to bed.

*

His bike purrs like a wild cat, a well-tuned panther darting and leaping into twisted shadows.  You can smell his skin, your face pressed against his back in the sticky heat. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt.  He takes you far enough outside town that the dull lights become a mere suggestion smeared on the horizon. You can see stars, out here, above its jagged, blackout border of rocky hilltop.

He sweeps the bike around in a tight circle, rocking your body into his, chuckling at the way your breath catches.  His brakes work just fine.

“Careful along the edge, stray girl,” he murmurs, helping you down as if you need it.  But you hadn’t seen the sweep of nothingness a few dozen inches from your feet—the invisible border between unlit dirt and empty void.

Junk Dog unrolls the sleeping pack from its straps and shakes it open.  You watch him with your arms braced behind you on the bike, engine still hot enough to burn if you touch it.  But the wind feels cool where it cuts through the exhalation of heat over your skin.

“I hope the chariot was to your taste,” he says.  “Your suite is ready.”

When you laugh, the edges of your teeth skate your lower lip, and his eyes fix on your mouth.  You toe off your shoes. He takes a knee, and your hand, and pulls you down into warm blankets that smell like wind and dust, earth and him.  He tucks your body beneath his own.

“That won’t even be a joke, one day,” you tell him, catching his eyes.  “Pretty soon you’ll have five-star ladies in five-star hotel rooms.”

Junk Dog makes a slow, thoughtful sound, then casually uses his knee to push your thighs open.  “Well, I don’t know about that. Pretty hard to bring an outside dog around good company.”

“Street mongrel too good for satin sheets?”

“Those pedigree bitches,” he whispers, and then he starts _touching_ you, “don’t like to play rough.”

He kisses you then, swallowing the delight in your voice, bracing his weight on his elbow as he slides a calloused hand up your side, strumming a thumbnail over your hollowed-out ribs, rucking up your shirt and the support band beneath to expose your warm breasts to the air.  When you moan at the pressure of his cupped hand, he swallows that, too, until you’re gasping for breath. You’ve gotta bite down before he lets you pull away, air burning through your lungs in a heavy rush.

There’s blood on his lip.  “Good girl,” he says, his eyes flickering like streetlights about to go out.

You start to wriggle your shorts down, but he pins your wrists above your head and ducks his face against your throat, dragging his mouth from your collarbone to your jaw, following the roar of your jugular.  His thigh presses between your legs, and your mind goes blank because you can’t quite figure why he’s not fucking you yet.

“C’mon,” you hiss, shooting him a glare when he leans back to look at you.  He can’t seem to keep his eyes on your face, though, dipping down to stare at the dark tips of your breasts.

“What are you in a hurry for,” he grins, sucking a nipple into his mouth, and it’s all you can do not to scream.  Then he bites down, and you can’t.

His mouth slips off with a pop.  “That didn’t take long,” he mentions casually.  The new wind on your wet skin causes it to pebble and ache.  Wetness slicks your thighs.

“I’ll tell you what’s taking long,” you grumble, and he smiles down at you in a way that makes your belly go tight.

“Impatient,” he chides gently.

“Impossible!”  You spit back.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs, placing a farewell kiss to your other breast, and then he’s moving down the length of your body.  He lets your wrists go, but only to get a grip on your shorts, tugging them down around your hips and leaving you to struggle them past your knees.

You're not wearing panties. He settles his face between your thighs.

“J,” you manage, and the sound could have been _Junk_ or it could’ve been _Joe_ , but it dies on your lips when his tongue touches you.

His thumbs are gonna leave bruises, high up under your ass.  The muscles in your legs spasm, alternately clenching in or trying to relax open as he sucks slowly on your clit, slips his tongue briefly inside you, flattening it, dragging it back up.  It’s too much, he’s making these noises like he _really loves it_ , and your fingers are knotting his hair with the indecision of making him stop or begging him not to.

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles after a minute or an hour.  “Are you close?”

“Yeah.”  He’s stopped, you realize, to give you a minute to speak.

“Go on, then,” he urges, his eyes heavy on your face.  He’s pushed back up away from you, onto his knees. His shorts have pooled on the blankets, his cock flushed and dark in his hand. 

“Just—,” you angle your hips up, pinch his calf sharply with your toes.

“Not ‘til you come for me,” he says, licking his lips.  His mouth is slick from your cunt.

“I can’t believe this,” you moan.

“Use your fingers.  I wanna watch.”

You aren’t used to an audience, but you really are close—so you use your fingers, like he tells you, watching the slow stroke of his hand over his cock.  You think about the thickness of it, fantasize about how it’ll feel inside you. The taut muscles strung between your hips start to rubberband, and you don’t realize you’re screaming until he cradles your lower body, presses the tip of his cock inside you while you drag yourself through a second orgasm, a third.  He finally, _finally_ loses patience after that.

“Fuck,” he hisses, inching in his cock, but your fingers are still working, and the sensation of coming around him, of bearing down even as he opens you up, makes you forget your own name.

It’s too good.  He picks up the pace like it's an afterthought, an accident, and he’s so hard that you can’t believe he _fits_.  His cock rocking into your body, already ratcheted beyond what you thought your nerves capable of, causes your throat to bottom out.  His heavy moans fill the void you've left open, his shoulders tucked under your legs, his hands crushing your hips.

He almost doesn’t make it out.  But he comes on your belly, at the last minute, his face pressed into your neck, his breath ragged and his cool composure finally broken down to its base parts.

“See what I mean,” he says after a while, panting, “about the noise.”

You nod, a willing participant.  He cleans you up, then himself, then grabs a canteen from his bike while you straighten out your clothes.  He passes the water over to you.

“Okay,” you say after a few full swallows.

“Okay?”  Junk Dog asks curiously.

You shrug.  You expect him to help you up, to pack up the bedding and take you home.  But he throws himself down next to you, his arm slung over his face.

You watch him for awhile, then stretch out again, stare up at the pale freckles of light puncturing the black bowl of the sky.

“Tomorrow,” he says eventually.  “I got a thing, but.”

“You wanna meet up after?”  You ask. He peeks at you under his wrist.  You raise an eyebrow.

“Well.  Yeah, but also,” he hums.  “You could come to the thing, too.”

Oh.  “Oh.”

“If you want,” he says.  He sits up, mouth working around a slack smile.  “I don’t know what shape I’ll be in afterwards, but I’m game to work around it.”

“I’ll think about it.”  But you don’t, not really.  

He packs up, and you help him re-roll the blankets.  He drives you back to the boathouse, but catches your wrist before you go.  “You should have Sachio look your bike over.”

He's not wrong.  “When?”

“Morning?  Kid’s an early riser.”

“I don’t know,” you tease, “I was up pretty late tonight.”

“So stay over,” he says casually.  He doesn't kiss you. He doesn’t have to.

You don’t really have to think about it.

You're alone when you wake up the next day, but only for a couple of minutes.  Junk Dog comes back from the bathroom or wherever, and you make room in the cramped bed.

He sets something on the nightstand before folding in around you, arms and legs like sunlight become steel.  His body runs so hot.

You crack an eyelid to see two red apples.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. I have no excuses. I don't know why--uh.
> 
> Yeah, so, here's some more shameless smut.

He’s not really in any kind of shape.

*

You went.  Since he invited you, and got you the ticket.  It’ll be something to talk about back home—not a lot of opportunity to go uptown, slum side of the tracks—but you had a nice enough dress, old but in decent shape on account of never having opportunity to wear it.  You washed your hair in the river, in the late morning, and Junk Dog watched from on deck with interest, but ultimately restraint.

“We’re going up early,” he’d said, jutting out his chin in a way that meant _To the City_.  “You ridin’ up with us?”

You could’ve.  You’d glanced over at the kid, then elbows-deep in your bike.  You’d imagined sitting up in the stands with Old Man Nanbu and Sachio, not invested like they are, or at least not with their history.  They’re family. You don’t really belong in that house.

But you’re fine waiting outside the door.  So you’d wrung your hair out and said, “I’ll head up later, now my bike’s in working order,” and gave him just the corner of your mouth.

He’d leaned forward a bit, over the railing, with sparkling eyes.  He’d smiled back at you with more.

*

He’d seen you in the stands, because he’d looked, and when you nodded down at him he’d smiled the same way.

But the fight’s over now, Nanbu figuring out pay and contracts and percentages, and Sachio asleep on a nicer chair than any place he’s slept rough.  Junk Dog’s settled on a starched mattress, liberally stacked with ice packs. His ugliest cuts are taped up, his hair wet from a stiff shower.

You set your purse next to Sachio, because Junk Dog pulls his split lip into the world’s dumbest grin and crooks a finger at you.

“You weren’t kidding,” you breathe.  It comes out like a laugh.

“Like I said,” he gets his fingers around your wrist, traces your veins up to your elbow.  “We can work around it.”

It probably hadn’t felt good, showering all beat to hell.  But he’d done it. You look him over, his bare chest and his clean sweatpants and his bruises, his swollen cheek, the damp press of his hair.

His eyes, locked on yours.  He looks hungry. Then he shoots a thoughtful look at Sachio.

“Early riser,” you remind him.

“Light sleeper, too,” Junk Dog grudgingly admits.

“You wanna get outta here, then?”

He pulls you down a bit, until you’re bracing your weight on one knee between both of his, and his hands trace a path from your arms to your shoulders to your waist.  “That a date, stray girl?”

You shrug a shoulder.  “If that’s what works for you.”

*

His breath catches, his arms a tight cage around your torso.  You’ve been careful, but the roads aren’t—pressed against your back, his face sealed to your neck, you feel him react to every small bump in the road, every lean into a turn, the way your wheels skate a pothole.

“We’re almost there,” you tell him.  His palms knead the swell of your ribcage, the jut of your hip.

“You smell really good,” he mumbles, his words almost lost in the wind.  You ride like a demon.

“I cleaned up a bit.”

He hums softly, and you feel the cool point of a canine against your jugular.  His mouth is hot, but the air strips it down to a cool track of ice. The hand on your hip inches down to your thigh, picks at the high hem of your dress, slips up beneath the thin fabric.

“Can’t wait to get my mouth on you again,” he sighs.

“Punch-drunk,” you murmur, your knees gone tight around the chassis.  Traffic has died away around you, the black wells between street lamps stretching longer and longer the further you get from the city.  The stars track overhead, endless lines of light like glowing claw marks, tearing apart the night sky.

*

You throw down the kickstand.  “C’mon.”

He shifts behind you, rigid with cold, sore muscles, and you keep up against his shoulder for support until you’ve got both feet on the ground.  You help him off the bike with a quiet hiss.

“This is a diner.”  He glances at the building you’ve parked in front of, the stuttering neon sign cutting the angles of his face with bright green.  He glances at you curiously, his arm slung around your shoulders. His hand drifts, finds its way to the curve of your ass.

“You’re gonna eat something.”

He licks his lips thoughtfully.  “I was planning on it.”

You drag him forward, figuring he can’t make out the heat in your cheeks.  The dull bell chimes. Behind the counter, Darla looks up and calls out to you.  “Hey honey, I was wondering when you’d show up. Got you the nice spot in the back.”  She shoots you a wink that isn’t subtle at all, and you roll your eyes. Then she glances at your companion.

“Gearless Joe,” she grins, setting aside the dish she was washing and wiping her hands on her apron.  She maneuvers her short, broad body around the stools and grabs a couple of menus. “Good fight tonight.”

Junk Dog grins.  “Thanks.”

Darla leads you up a couple of steps into a small room with a TV, a table set for two, and a mattress with clean-looking sheets.  There’s a half-melted candle, which she lights; good for a few hours, at least. “I’ll be back in just a couple minutes,” she promises.

Junk Dog looks at the mattress, then at you.  His fingers get into whatever parts of you he can reach.

You delicately peel them away.  “I mean it,” you tell him. “You can do whatever you want after you eat something.”

He reaches for a menu and, with effort, takes a seat in one of the chairs.  The firelight throws gilt in his hair, traces the strong bones and deep bruises of his face.

“You’re sweet,” he says.

*

You had a plan, sort of, which started with sucking him off and ended with riding him into the mattress.  Because you could work around it, him all busted up. You could be mindful of the bandages. You’re well-balanced, you’re lightweight, got enough stamina at least to make him come.

Darla cleared dinner away, the candle low enough it’ll gutter out any minute, and Junk Dog’s thrown back his third glass of water, gone to the bathroom out in the diner proper, come back with one hand behind him and the other locking the door.

“Dessert,” he mumbles, but keeps you from seeing what it is, setting it on the table and throwing his shirt off over it, tumbling down on top of you on the mattress.

“On your back,” you command imperiously.  He’s already pulling your dress up, rubbing the unbruised side of his jaw along your thigh.  “I can—”

Your lose your words to a shudder when he breathes against you.  Then you lose yourself beneath his tongue.

You had a plan.  When you find your voice enough to talk, you hiss, “Wanna—wanna ride you.”

“Okay,” he says against your cunt, dragging the hard press of his mouth up over your clit.  You pant and beg, but you manage to sort of climb onto your knees.

Your face is hot.  He’s staring at you, and then he’s slowly, slowly tipping you over.

“You gotta,” you sigh, disjointed, as his hands gently guiding your hips where he wants them.  “Your back, gotta get on—your back…”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, shifting the midline of your body.

So then you’re face-down in a pillow, then he’s opening up your knees with a faint hitch in his breath.  Your dress is shoved past your waist, almost around your ribs. He’s kissing your spine in a slow, measured way from the middle of your back to your tailbone, and his fingers move between your thighs, slick with how much you want him to fuck you, working into you, circling your clit tighter and tighter.

It isn’t until you start to sob that he finally lines up, shoves his cock into your body like a pitbull mounting a bitch in heat.

You really had meant to ride him.  He won’t be able to move in the morning.

He bucks his hips in a way that makes you scream.  You figure you won’t be moving too much, either.

*

It was apple pie.  You share it for breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on original fiction [here](http://www.pucabooks.com), but literally could not keep from writing this shameless smut. Sorry, everyone. <3.
> 
> *If you have Kindle Unlimited, please considering reviewing some of the [original work](https://www.amazon.com/s?i=digital-text&rh=p_27%3AP%C3%BAca+Books&s=relevancerank&text=P%C3%BAca+Books&ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_2) I've been writing/editing! If you don't have KU, the shortest stories are 99 cents and the longer stories/chaptered books are never more than $2.99.


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